


Housecalls

by souligneur



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: 1980's-1990's, Don't need to know HM to follow the story, Extremely graphic content, Gen, Gore, Hotline Miami AU, M/M, More tags to be added as story progresses, Not always chronological, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Questionable morality at best in this one, Russian Mafia, Soviet-American War (fictional), Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-09-23 02:43:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9637391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/souligneur/pseuds/souligneur
Summary: A war, a conscience, a purpose, a friend-- David lost many things in the Russo-American Conflict, and he's left on his own to pick up the pathetic pieces. Wading through crippling loss and isolation is a challenge all its own, but David is soon thrust into a visceral fever-dream of bloodshed and conspiracy that all begins with a series of cryptic phonecalls that refuse to take 'no' for an answer.Welcome to Miami.





	1. Disturbance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning (for this entire story) for violence, gore and disturbing scenes. No graphic sexual content unless stated.

__

 

The Soviets are like an impenetrable cancer. Festering, and consuming all that was left of the American resistance. Spreading their roots like crimson flowers through these godforsaken islands; drinking impossibly from the saltwater Pacific. Laughing in the face of death itself. To Big Boss, death started to look more and more inviting as he lost more and more ground. More and more men. Folded flags.

 

John flourishes the end of his signature, an unreadable scrawl, on the footer of the printed page. He holds the point of his fountain pen to the pad of his thumb; applies pressure there until it draws blood, brimming through the maze of his calloused fingerprint.

 

FOXHOUND Special Forces Unit, skilled in the art of sabotage, was the only thing left that Big Boss could bank on. A frontal assault on the power plant — the Reds’ roots creeping along and inside the walls — would be an incredible, pathetic mistake. Best remain unseen. Leave no traces, no stories to bring to the other side of the iron curtain. Leave nothing but the doubtful, hushed whispers and speculation amongst the public that the destruction of the plant may not have been a mere accident. John knew they wouldn’t admit to having the rug pulled out from under them. He knew what that kind of pride was like.

 

John had faith in FOXHOUND. One of the only units that he would step out into the soil for, would personally take time out of his day to train with. Miller handled them day-to-day, and attested to their strength when they talked alone, when the man was not stressing out over logistics and communication with Mainland. FOXHOUND, his pet project. Miller’s attack dogs.

 

Only problem was, there were only two left.

 

John looks over his papers forlornly. Two identical sets of papers, two different sets of names. One will be sent out to Alaska, to an aging woman with no idea, no idea what she, what this country, truly lost: a formidable fighter, an unsung hero whose story will be locked away, some kind of secret shame of the government. The other will be simply sent to the archives. No family. No next of kin.

 

On each one, below his own signature, he presses his thumbprint to the fibers. _I’m sorry._

 

It would never be enough of an apology. Nothing that he could say could ever be enough, so he just whispers--

 

 

 

All at once, there’s a slam, a crash.

 

 

 

Panting, soaked to the bone with warm rain, Miller stumbles through the door. Hard, with purpose. John looks up. He’s…

 

“You _see_ this?” Miller’s shaking, he bites his lip, spits blood onto the rug, pooling at his gums. He’s wearing…

 

“This is who I am! This is _who we all are._ ”

 

**Skin.**

 

Shedded skin from an animal. Something feral. Haphazardly cut from the snout.

 

“Boss. We’re animals.”

 

“… Kaz.” John’s voice is low, a hum. Confusion.

 

“There’s no denying it! A bunch of _goddamned animals._ ” Miller has his fist set in the doorframe, knuckles crunched to the wood, fist white with the strain of it. His other, gripping a knife. It’s still raining, a sheet of it falling from the deck awning like a backdrop; the occasional wind washing rain into the entrance of their quarters at Miller’s feet. 

 

“Sending our boys out, to slaughter or be slaughtered… And we just… Sit here, we _sit_ until they tell us what to do, how to do it… No will of our own. Just _mindless obedience_.”

 

“Kaz.”

 

The wet sheet of flesh is slipping down and to the side, threatening to fall from Miller’s panting. John is stood up, hands planted firmly on his desk. Hesitating to move.

 

“Why are we even here? Was this, is this, worth it? We aren’t winning. We’re —  All — ”

 

“ _Kazuhira_.” John moves towards the door slowly, reaching his arm out. Miller flinches when he motions to rest his gloved hand on his shoulder. “Stay with me. Look at me.”

 

Miller isn’t looking at him, under the veil of his amber aviators, looking down, a spot between them on the floor. John lowers his head to meet his gaze, Miller’s heavy breathing strong with the bitter scent of alcohol, eyes tracking to anywhere but John’s stare. He runs his hand under the curtain of wiry fur and raw flesh. Slides it past his wet hair, discarding it on the ground.

 

Miller freezes in place, knife in his hand clattering to the floor. Looks up at John’s knitted brow and wide eye too fast, doubles over as John pushes away from the doorframe quickly, Miller dropping to his knees and emptying the contents of his stomach unceremoniously upon the straw mat.

 

It was all so sudden. John kneels down, knee of his uniform saturating with rain, with something else. Looks from Miller, shoulders heaving, to the jagged pelt on the floor, to the knife, to the night sky over the crashing waves beyond their deck.

 

“You’re drunk.”

 

“I…” Kaz chokes on his own spit upon the first word, coughs, laughs a little in shame. “I may have had a bit too much to drink. Maybe we…” He looks up at John, glasses crooked and falling off of his face, “Maybe _I_ … Better go to bed.”

 

“Might be a good idea.”

 

John grips his forearm and rises, supports Miller as he stands up and edges out of the doorway, kicking the mat outside behind them. Turns out the light, and closes the door. 

 

 

__

 

 

“Smoke?” Frank offers.

 

David smiles gently, leaning back on his arm in the soft sand. “Go ahead.” Frank doesn’t need to lean much to light David’s cigarette dangling from his mouth, sitting hip to hip on the beach, already weighed down with full suits of gear and leaving deep imprints in the wet sand with their boots.

 

David thinks that they’re both glad that the storm let up before dawn hit, the grey of night dissipating with the clouds when the sun flooded the beach. At this point they had both come to terms with their mission. What it meant. Didn’t want to end their sentence on a colorless morning.

 

There were so many things they could have said. So many things left _unsaid_. Talks about the war, about whether what they were about to do was worth it. Whether it was going to change anything at all. Talks about themselves, parts of their lives that they didn’t feel were relevant to the other in their frequent, casual chats about the here and the now. Talks about each other, and what they meant to them. What any of this meant. 

 

Instead, they both resign to quiet, shifting waves and the sway of the trees doing little to stir them. They smoke.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Snake?”

 

David looks up from the array of firearms placed neatly upon the wooden table, to the Commander standing just on the edge of the shade of the canopy.

 

“Morning, Commander,” David doesn’t smile, but his eyes crinkle a bit like one when he looks to him. “You look tired.” He didn’t have use for formalities with Miller, not since Miller bonded closely to the FOXHOUND Unit. Miller discarded his demand for an air of superiority long ago.

 

The Commander shakes his head, ducks under the canopy towards the table. David didn’t notice until now, but Miller was using his cane today. Despite his most recent prosthesis being more than capable of enabling him, Miller would sometimes still rely on support on his worst days. 

 

“I had a bit to drink.” Miller busies himself looking down at the firearms, shrugging his shoulders under the worn tan trench coat, far too warm for the Hawaiian morning. Made him look even older, older than the tired eyes that he perpetually hid behind his shades.

 

“And that’s got little to do with it.”

 

“… Yes.” The Commander sighs, frown weighing down at the corners of his mouth. “You’ve… Seen the plans, so you should know. You boys — “

 

“We’ll be walking directly into a trap.” David leans back on the table, arms crossed. “And there’s little you can do about it.”

 

Miller nods, and a silence grows, for a little while. Both men with their backs to the guns, looking out into the forest beyond the camp.

 

“They say they’re sending us home tomorrow.” David murmurs.

 

Miller clicks his tongue. He’s smiling, but out of incredulousness rather than amusement. Stares ahead. “Whether or not you’re in body bags, they dont know. They don’t care.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Miller sinks into a sitting position on the table, one organic hand and one robotic one coming to rest clasped in his lap, head down.

 

“I’ve already said it to Fox.” Miller says, with a heavy tone. “I’ll say it again to you. It’s…”

 

Miller shifts forward a bit, removes his glasses from the bridge of his nose. Folds them in his lap, looks directly into David’s eyes with his milky, damaged ones.

 

“It’s been damn good commanding this squad, Snake. We may not win this war, but… I couldn’t be more proud of you boys.”

 

David holds his gaze, resolutely. 

 

“… Thank you, Commander.”

 

As David rises, slings a rifle on his back and moves to depart, Miller reaches out and rests a hand on his shoulder, just for a moment.

 

“Good luck. You’re going to need it.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

__

 

 

“Yeah but, okay… I don’t know if it’s the heat,” David laughs, loose and carefree, swirling the last of his drink on the bartop, “But I’m feeling kind of drunk already.” His company laughs, he’s not sure if it’s with him or at him.

 

“What the fuck, Snake. Seriously, it’s still bright out there.” The hulking form of Gaur is nudging at him, and the strength of it probably would have made him at least grunt if he wasn’t somehow already wasted. “Right. Who’s taking _kiddo_ home?” Another jab at his shoulder.

 

“Fuck that, I’m just settling down.” Armadillo has one leg crossed over her other, facing away from the bar and towards the game on the small television set in a far corner. “Fox?”

 

“I’m good for another round or two…” 

 

Armadillo rolls her eyes before Fox even gets through his sentence —  slow and calculated, as he always talks —  clutching at her beer defensively. They’re not making her go. 

 

“But I was thinking of heading back to camp, anyway,” Fox finishes. David perks his head up, turns to watch Frank rise from the bar a few seats away from him and make his way toward him, slowly, hands in his pockets.

 

Gaur, between them, shakes his shoulders in a hearty laugh. “Yeah, better off, Frankie. Lord knows Arms and I could outdrink you under the table.” 

 

Frank isn’t looking at David, but reaches his hand out in a small _come on, then_ silently, choosing to ignore whatever Gaur was ribbing him about this time. Fox is older than them, these fresh young faces in their make-pretend uniforms playing soldier; comments rolled off him like rain on tin. David stands up to follow, steps behind him silently and out the doors of the bar. 

 

David wondered why Fox even bothered to show up. Always assumed Fox had little in common with any of them. Including himself. He inwardly frowns.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Fox has the discipline, the confidence, the mindset of a soldier far older than he really is, and David had to admit he had pushed himself harder, ran a little faster, really wore down under Commander Miller’s barking to try and catch up with him. 

 

And sure, it made the Commander happy, Miller’s normally bored (and slightly bitchy?) eyes lighting up just a faint glimmer, finding a new mark to push, pull, and mold into his idea of a model soldier. And David worked, and worked. But it didn’t catch the attention of Fox at all, and David wasn’t sure if it was failure to impress or rather complete, horse-blinder ignorance of those around him and not his task at hand. 

 

And even after Miller had assigned each FOXHOUND operative a partner, Frank carried David through drills and small ops with a ‘ _mission, mission, mission_ ’ mindset. And David, in these early ops, sometimes held back a little, watched almost from the _sidelines_ as Frank slid right into his element — They didn’t always go quiet, and when they went loud, Fox was downright happy. His movements, his kills, like a passion.

 

Working with him was what changed David. Commander Miller emphasized stealth, and infiltration, despite training them impeccably in the art of combat. Before Fox, and his violent enthusiasm, David didn’t look to pick a fight. Didn’t relish his chance to show off his skill with a gun, with hand-to-hand. Cared only for endurance, for perfect stealth. And when he had to kill a man, it still stung, no matter how many times.

 

It hurt to kill a man, until he saw Fox bare his teeth. Watched as he strangled, shot, _sliced, burned, (this is a war crime, I should be stopping him,)_ Fox’s hands stoically steady contrasted with a heaving chest —  not from exertion, but from adrenaline. David watched his eyes as he took the life out of someone else’s, light and alive. Felt something brimming to the surface of himself.

 

Later, David was holding a shaking Russian to his own chest, toying at him with a knife, and that’s when Fox looked at him. Had his whole attention. Looked from the knife, to David, directly into his eyes as David had done to him before. Fox smiles at him, and his heart rate fucking _spikes_.

 

It didn’t hurt after that.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Frank lights up another cigarette on the deck in front of the bar, stopping for a moment a few steps away from their four-wheel drive. He exhales, “What do you say? Do we hoof it, or do we leave the car for them?”

 

“I wouldn’t mind the walk,” David says, hooking an arm around Fox’s shoulders, smiling. Liquid courage. _Notice. No wait, don’t notice, yeah. That’d be better. I think._

 

Fox nods once, and doesn’t stiffen from the touch, but his eyes are tracking something else, and so David follows them. A mustached journalist and company, lugging a bunch of equipment, moving towards the bar and approaching the two of them.

 

Mustache nods to their uniforms more than to their faces. “Excuse me fellas, you have a second…?” He doesn’t wait for a response, though the response would have been a shrug or two. “I’d like to get a picture of you, if you don’t mind.”

 

Frank doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t say ‘no’ either. So David stutters out, “Uh, yeah sure, uh,” his thoughts catching up to his words at a slower rate than he’d want. “Could you send me a copy of the picture, if I give you my address?” Frank laughs silently, just a little, the vibrations of which rocking through David’s hold.

 

“Ah, there’s no need for that, we have a Polaroid… Somewhere over here,” Mustache gestures behind himself to one of the many black cases being carried by someone else. “Would you gentlemen mind stepping out into the sun here a little bit?”

 

They both make their way out of the shade of the bar, leaning against their vehicle, David reluctantly moving back and keeping his hands to himself. Frank steps on the last of his cigarette, leaning back in turn, the two of them looking… Stiff, bored. 

 

Mustache is pointing the camera at them, hesitating and pursing his lips, and Frank looks at David with a raised eyebrow that turns into a small laugh. And David is laughing soon, too, in surprise and some sort of relief, as Frank rolls his eyes and brings David right up against his side, snaking one arm at his hip. “Dave. _Smile._ ”

 

And at that —  this casual, nonsense order that sounds alien in Fox’s quiet voice —  David smiles so openly, so _genuinely_ to the camera, throwing up a ‘peace’ sign with his free hand, looking on top of the world.

 

When David is handed a brightening Polaroid moments later, he realizes that Fox was really, honestly smiling too. And, it wasn’t towards the camera. Frank’s happiness was directed at _him_.

 

 

 

__

 

 

There were worse things they could have been doing on a balmy afternoon than casing a power plant from a western cliff, and despite the reality of the situation — what everything entailed, the sheer _numbers_ involved, the calculated impossibility of their survival — Snake practically sank into the warm, loamy soil below, binoculars loose to his eyes, the damp threatening to saturate his uniform but not unpleasant. Grounding.

 

David lowers his binoculars, rolling over to lay on his back. Checks the time. They have twenty minutes.

 

Frank was turning one of his guns in his hands, crouched a little further away from the edge, uninterested in the view. He catches David looking at him, and gives him a tight smile of acknowledgement.

 

 _You nervous?_ David asks, with his eyebrows rather than his lips.

 

 _No._ Frank smiles, for real this time. _Raring to go._

 

 _Yeah, I know._ Typical. David sits up, pulls at his canteen and nurses it, looking down at his gloves for a while. Next to Fox, he was practically still green. Snake looks up over his eyelashes, fingers tapping at the stainless steel. Fox was inspecting his gear like a professional; no signs of discomfort, no knitted brow or downturn of the lips. Snake frowns to himself, laying back down in the soil, watching the treetops. _Pull it together. Look at him, he’s got it all figured out. What are you doing?_

 

At least, David thinks, if Fox had noticed, he certainly didn’t show it. He was ready, and his focus was on tasks far larger than playing shrink. If Fox had any of his time and mind to give to David, it would be down in the concrete monolith below them. Later.

 

And if Fox noticed Snake relaxing into a short slumber, he didn’t complain. 

 

They had twenty minutes.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

 

ＢＥＥＰ ＢＥＥＰ ＢＥＥＰ ＢＥＥＰ ＢＥＥＰ ＢＥＥＰ ＢＥＥＰ

 

 

Snake rounds the corner, running towards the stairwell down the narrow corridor. Fox is at a full sprint in front of him, stops when he reaches the end, just past the useless elevators, standing adjacent to the doorframe, gun at the ready, back to the wall. Snake hears the panicked sounds of people rushing down the stairs from the floor below, barely audible through the blaring of the raid siren, the repeating automated announcement from a detached voice over the PA system, echoing through the walls from every room.

 

 

ＢＥＥＰ ＢＥＥＰ ＢＥＥＰ ＢＥＥＰ ＢＥＥＰ ＢＥＥＰ ＢＥＥＰ

 

 

It only takes an instant. It all happened in an instant, faster than he could process. He’s _almost there_ , looks for something to focus on instead of the screaming and the bright lights, so he focuses on Fox. 

 

 

ＢＥＥＰ ＢＥＥＰ ＢＥＥＰ ＢＥＥＰ ＢＥＥＰ ＢＥＥＰ ＢＥＥＰ

 

 

And Fox is turning his head, and it’s playing in slow motion; his eyes stoic and cold, his measured inhale, and for that second David thinks _it’s all right, this is under control_. And Fox’s eyes are tracking from the stairwell, turns his head to the side to look towards David, and his mouth gently begins to part as if he is about to spe — 

 

 

ＴＨＥ ＥＬＥＶＡＴＯＲ ＧＥＴ ＨＩＭ ＡＷＡＹ ＦＲＯＭ ＴＨＥ ＥＬＥＶＡＴＯＲ ＧＥＴ ＨＩＭ ＡＷＡＹ ＦＲＯＭ ＴＨＥ ＥＬＥＶＡＴＯＲ 

 

 

David doesn’t have the time to even stop running. He’s just far enough away that when he stumbles forward, the shrapnel and the fire just barely but viciously strike his face, throwing him to the ground, face-down in ruined tile, shards of metal, flames engulfing — 

 

 

ＧＥＴ ＵＰ ＡＮＤ ＤＯ ＳＯＭＥＴＨＩＮＧ ＨＥＬＰ ＨＩＭ ＨＥ＇Ｓ

 

 

David crawls prone along the floor, he can’t open his eyes, he can’t feel half of his face. He’s only somewhat aware he’s on fire. He crouches in on himself, shields his face with his forearms, thrashes frantically.

 

And keeps moving forward.

 

 

ＹＯＵ ＳＨＯＵＬＤ ＨＡＶＥ ＢＥＥＮ ＴＨＥＲＥ ＩＮＳＴＥＡＤ

 

 

He reaches an arm out in front of him and finds purchase on Fox’s ankle. He drags himself up.

 

“Frank — “

 

He opens his eyes.

 

Fox is alive.

 

David wishes he wasn’t.

 

 

ＹＯＵ ＳＨＯＵＬＤ ＨＡＶＥ ＢＥＥＮ ＴＨＥＲＥ ＩＮＳＴＥＡＤ

 

How do you even move someone who’s fallen apart without breaking them?

 

David can’t even scream. He can only sob a cracked, loud warning. “Frank I’m going to try and drag you I’m sorry I’m so sorry — “

 

He wastes precious seconds attempting to get himself up on one knee. He reaches around Fox’s vest, and Fox doesn’t even scream when he moves him. David hears some sort of sick, rippling sound from his throat instead.

 

He’s distinctly aware they left a limb behind. He pushes the thought out of his mind and focuses on the stairs. The slow, agonizing descent on the stairs.

 

Fox finally manages to vomit the blood in his throat, coughs and splutters on David’s neck. It runs down into his shirt.

 

“Dave.”

 

He barely hears it, ears ringing, eyes ahead. “Stay awake, please. Frank. Stay awake.”

 

Another coughing fit. He presses forward.

 

 

ＹＯＵ＇ＶＥ ＣＯＭＥ Ａ ＬＯＮＧ ＷＡＹ， ＤＡＶＥ， Ｉ＇Ｍ ＩＭＰＲＥＳＳＥＤ

 

 

They've made it down two stories before David can’t move anymore. He slowly lays Fox down.

 

He reaches for his radio.

 

“My name is… Ben Smith… My car’s broken down on the… I need a… I…”

 

“Can you repeat that?” The commander sounds grave. “Over.”

 

“My name is…”

 

Fox doubles over and moans.

 

“ — Fuck it! Miller, we need a CASEVAC here! I’m at 19.42N, 155.28W! First floor, stairwell! And step on it! He’s bleeding out! I’m…”

 

He cuts the call.

 

 

ＲＥＭＥＭＢＥＲ ＴＨＡＴ ＯＮＥ ＴＩＭＥ ＷＨＥＮ ＷＥ．．．

 

 

“Hang in there.”

 

A sigh.

 

“They’ll be here real soon.”

 

“Dave…”

 

“Yes?"

 

Fox opens his only eye and looks directly at him. There’s no pain in his face. That’s a bad thing. David’s heart sinks.

 

“Finish me.” Frank smiles with what’s left of his jaw. Tendons looking ready to snap. “Pretend like we’re in training.”

 

What?

 

“No. No!”

 

“Help me feel something again.”

 

 

ＡＲＥ ＹＯＵ ＰＲＯＵＤ ＯＦ ＷＨＡＴ ＹＯＵ ＨＡＶＥ ＤＯＮＥ？

 

 

It was so easy when it was somebody, anybody else. Snake holds the handgun to the side of Fox’s head, shaking.

 

“Hey... You have that picture?” Fox says, breathless.

 

A pause. “Yes. Do you — “

 

“No… Hah, David, no… You keep that. It’s on the house.”

 

David swallows.

 

“Frank. Are you ready…?” His voice shakes.

 

“Yeah. You…” Fox squeezes Snake’s free palm with his remaining hand. Strokes the side of it with his thumb. “I would have done the same for you. Right?”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“Don't be.”

 

 

 

 

 

He pulls the trigger.

 


	4. Part One

 

 

 

There was a droning in his ears that just wouldn’t go away.

 

David opens his eyes. No, wait, they were already open. They were open and it’s just dark. He puts his arms out in front of him, feels porcelain. That’s the sink. He’s in his bathroom. All right.

 

He groans, rubbing his eyes and then rubbing at his temples. His skin is clammy, and the window must be open because he’s freezing. He had one of the dreams again. He’s surprised he managed to pass out in the first place.

 

What did he have to drink last night? Nothing. He remembers. It was just pizza and tap water and a couple sleep aids. Why did he wake up on the bathroom floor? He doesn’t bother flipping the light, just opens the door to the living room.

 

That was a mistake. But what else could he have done?

 

He’s assaulted by cyan light. Bright, cyan light, like his living room is a goddamn nightclub. A house fly attacks his face, he swats at it and is duly rewarded with two more coming back to join it. He blinks a couple times, still adjusting to the light, _is that light coming from the window? What the hell._

 

And then he realizes this isn’t his living room. That was his bathroom, but this definitely isn’t his living room. And he’s not alone.

 

When she speaks, legs crossed all business and feminine on the leather armchair to his right, her voice is too loud for its tone. 

 

“And who do we have, here?” She muses. She’s holding something white, a flower, and there’s a soapy, overpowering scent in the air that makes David want to choke.

 

It’s deafening. It’s like her voice is coming from inside his skull and not out of her mouth. Her mouth being… She has a horse head. She’s a horse.

 

No, no, David can barely think. She doesn’t have a horse head. She has a horse mask. Like those novelty animal heads you can buy in costume shops.

 

 _That_ makes sense.

 

“Do you remember who you are?”

 

He’s not speaking to this thing.

 

“No?” She laughs, a polite one, not really amused at all. She leans forward in her chair, still staring at him… Or he assumes, at least, from what he can tell. He feels eyes all over him. 

 

She lowers her voice. “Maybe we should _leave_ it that way…?”

 

He’s frozen in place, he wants to dart but he can’t feel his legs. Then the cyan shifts to a revolting, piss-yellow and his eyes are drawn to the couch in the center of the living arrangement.

 

“But I know who you are.”

 

A stocky, older-looking man lounging, one arm propped up on the back of the couch, one leg over the other in a relaxed posture. And he’s wearing a rooster mask.

 

“Look at my face. We’ve met before…

 

… Haven’t we?”

 

Oddly, David finds himself agreeing with him.

 

David doesn’t have time to open his mouth before there’s a thousand screeching voices in his head, the light shifting a deep crimson, overwhelming him and throwing him to the floor covering his ears.

 

He’s crouched inward on himself, and has his eyes closed. But he can still see. _He can somehow still see, and his eyes are affixed to the left armchair._

 

And there’s a slimy-looking male, well-dressed, digging his hands into the armchair, shaking and looking defensive and ready to pounce on David. He’s got the face of a great horned owl. Feathers and all.

 

“I DON’T KNOW YOU!” The man shrieks inside David’s head, right behind his ears, “YOU’RE NO GUEST OF MINE!”

 

“Shhh…” The horse woman from before hushes the owl. David is almost, despite everything, relieved when she catches his attention again. He’s talking to animal people, and that’s alarming on many levels, but she’s the least threatening.

 

“Do you want to know who you are?”

 

_I know who I am. Stop it._

 

“Acknowledging oneself means acknowledging one’s actions…” She purrs. “As of late, you’ve done some terrible things.”

 

The rooster leans forward slowly, as if to get David’s attention but not to make any sudden movements.

 

“Don’t remember me?” His voice is gruff, and sounds so familiar. It’s on the tip of David’s tongue. “I’ll give you a clue… Does April the 3rd mean anything to you?”

 

David thinks, and swallows.

 

“You look like you might be remembering something.” He makes a pleased, huffing noise. He leans back into his seat, and the horse woman tilts her head at David, questioning.

 

He stands back up, balls of his feet digging into the floor, ready to run for the door at any moment. _Why isn’t he doing that already?_

 

He runs, and all but smashes through the front door of the apartment. Into white light.

 

The door slams behind him. He adjusts his breathing, blinks, tries to make any sense of the white void, a little bit amber. He feels slight weight over his entire body. He closes his eyes, just once, rubbing at his eyes again…

 

… And he’s under his white sheets, alone, in his bedroom.

 

 

 

 

He gets up, because he certainly isn’t going to roll over and try to go back to sleep. Christ. He doesn’t bother slipping on his sweat pants. He just plods off to the kitchen to go make a coffee.

 

Sitting at the kitchen table, staring at yesterday’s newspaper (since it was already there), mug nestled in his calloused hands, he tries to sort his thoughts.

 

So his punishment tonight was _two_ nightmares. Good to know he’s never getting over this.

 

Frank… No. Best not to think about it. He already had to relive it once today. Breathe in, breathe out.

 

 _Look at your newspaper._ There’s a young girl holding up a ribbon of some sort, she won an award at… Model City library, for reading the most titles in the book club in March. Good for her.

 

Maybe he should start going to the library, or something. Get out of his apartment. 

 

He shifts in his seat and looks over his shoulder, into the living room. _My actual living room_ , he huffs. A single, worn couch that had seen better days. A TV he got from his neighbor — nice, old guy. Games stacked in a neat pile on top of his NES, the thing still powered on because he didn’t want to lose whatever progress he made last night in his bout of moping over a greasy pizza box and doing so many sit-ups his abs still burned a little. 

 

He used to have a lot more to do before he broke up with his girlfriend. It’s been what… Two weeks? Almost. And he’s already busted out the video games and stopped eating vegetables that weren’t tomato sauce. 

 

_Good self-care you’re practicing, Dave._

 

He looks to the phone. He should probably set up an appointment, a little closer than what he already had set up at the end of the mo — 

 

He has a message on his answering machine. His head perks up a little. He walks over, picks up the receiver and tries to figure out how his answering machine works again. He knows Jen told him like a thousand times.

 

ＹＯＵ ＨＡＶＥ ＯＮＥ ＮＥＷ ＭＥＳＳＡＧＥ！*BEEP*

 

When he hears a male voice, his shoulders slump again.

 

“Hey this is Tim at the bakery… The cookies that you ordered should be delivered by now.”

 

Wrong number.

 

“A list of ingredients are included… Make sure that you read them carefully! Thanks.” The man was brief, ended his message before David thought to hang up. It wasn’t for him, anyway. He’s happy for whatever elderly woman ordered them.

 

He’s a little hungry, too. Cookies sound nice. 

 

He finds his jeans and a passably-clean shirt on the bedroom floor. He starts lacing up his shoes, throws on his jacket. Red, varsity jacket, emblazoned with an ‘M’. It’s tattered, but it’s his favourite. He got it from a thrift store — he had one like it back when he was in college, back before he enlisted. He wasn’t exactly _skinny_ back then, but FOXHOUND really changed him. When he got home he couldn’t fit his arms in the thing anymore, but he felt strongly enough about it to find a replacement. He’s aware this is kind of stupid. But he likes what he likes, and can use comfort wherever he can get it.

 

On the way out, he reaches over to the end of the kitchen counter to grab his smokes. Stretching out his neck to get the kinks out of it, and jingling his keys idly in his pocket with his fingers, he’s out the door. And his foot slams right into something. 

 

A package. He isn’t expecting anything. He reads the label. No return address, and it’s got his name on it and everything, so it isn’t for his neighbors. 

 

He raises his eyebrow a little and pulls out his swiss army knife, opening it there in the hall. He shoves one of the flaps on the cardboard box back, and immediately freezes. He almost drops it.

 

_It’s the goddamn rooster mask._

 

Fuck. Gathering his thoughts, and then immediately pushing them aside because he doesn’t know what to do with them, he shoves the rubber mask aside to reach at the letter. He assumes it’s an invoice or shipping sheet, looks it from the letterhead and the format. But it isn’t:

 

 

_The target is a briefcase. Discretion is of the essence. Directions are included on back side of this document._

_Leave target at 1200 NW 7th Ave, inside the dumpster._

_Failure is not an option._

_We’ll be watching you._

 

 

It’s some kind of joke. It isn’t funny, and his chest heaves as he walks back into his apartment, slamming the door behind him. 

 

He doesn’t know whether to call the police or call his therapist. He stands there by the phone, open package on the sideboard, and listens to the answering machine message again, as if it’s going to say something new the sixth or seventh time. It doesn’t.

 

He’s overloaded. There’s too much information to process, so he decides not to process it right now. He sits on the couch and stares at the ceiling, smothers a pillow in his face, grumbles to nobody.

 

The only thing he knows for sure is that he’s actually kind of scared.

 

He keeps the mask.

 

 

 


End file.
